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hair is thinning on top, and that the Duke is prematurely graying. For a brief moment, the spell is broken; they look almost like the guys my dad plays ball with on Sundays.
    Then Tex Richart’s voice reverberates over the P.A., “Ladies-dees and-nd Gentlemen-gentlemen. Batting first-first, for the Giants-Giants, number nineteen-teen, Alvin-Alvin, Dark-Dark, shortstop-stop .” The home crowd boos loudly. But everyone quickly settles in, and the game is underway. I sit quietly, scorecard resting in my lap, recording each put-out neatly in pencil.
    It’s as if I’ve crossed over into another firmament. The game is a closed universe where I exist from putout, to strikeout, to base hit—where innings seamlessly slip by without any sense of time passing.
    There are moments when I am so deep in concentration that I don’t even hear the crowd cheering. The only other times I’d experienced this sensation were when I was writing or engrossed in a book.
    When the reverie breaks, I start looking around, picking out the oddballs in the stands. In the fifth inning of this scoreless tie, old Hilda Chester, a stout, white-haired woman dressed like a rag picker, runs through the stands, her hands waving wildly. She’s clanging a set of metal cowbells and leading cheers. We stand up and yell with everyone else. She’s accompanied by the Dodger “Sym-Phony,” a group of rag-tag local musicians decked out in tattered tuxedos and stovepipe hats. I instinctively start tapping my toes as they play tinny, off-key Dixieland jazz. During the seventh inning stretch, Gladys Gooding urges the fans to sing along as she plays the “Follow the Dodgers” theme song. Like a church choir, we all join in.
    On this day Don Newcombe and the Dodgers beat their nemesis, Sal Maglie. The game winner is a three run homer by Gil Hodges in the bottom of the seventh. As the ball disappears over the Brass Rail sign in left field, the people behind me begin showering the lower grandstand with confetti. All around us, we see grown men and women jumping up and down on their seats and hugging one another. I’m happy too; it’s another win for the underdogs. Maybe this’ll be their year.
    When the game is over, the euphoric crowd refuses to leave until the team emerges from the dugout to wave their hats at us. Later, we linger at the third base exit outside the park and watch as the younger kids spot the players. A little blond boy in an oversized Dodger hat yells “Hey, there’s Pee Wee and Robbie,” and they all mill around their heroes—thrusting scuffed baseballs, Topps bubble gum cards, and black vinyl autograph books at them. Some players, dressed neatly in cubaveras and slacks, impatiently sign for a few minutes. Then they duck into touring cars or taxis taking them, I imagine, to exotic Manhattan destinations.
    I feel an odd mix of envy and awe. A piece of me knows that I could never even hope to be like one of those players. Yet, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to receive that kind of attention and adulation.
    During the hot, crowded subway and bus rides home, we keep the afterglow alive by replaying the day’s highlights to one another—complete with simulated crowd noises and sound effects. Heshy imitates Red Barber saying “Hodges has just parked one in the left field seats, and that’s all she wrote for Maglie.”
    Fellow strap hangers applaud. Others look at us like we’re crazy. I don’t care: just knowing I have a Dodger/Giant ticket stub in my pocket makes me glow inside. For the rest of the ride home, I daydream that I’m part of an elite, secret society—a fraternity of select fans, all of us chosen in recognition of our vast knowledge and appreciation for this game.

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    Being a Dodger fan was a fortunate match, but it didn’t satisfy my deepest longings. I desperately wanted to play in the schoolyard choose-up